Reparations
by mdevile
Summary: Sometimes Jim needs to be seen for everything he is. Sometimes he thinks the most important people in his life understand that. Sometimes he's wrong.


**General Blather:**

So. I've signed up for Bigbang and committed to producing a 20K fic by September.

I've got three fills left on my Kink_Bingo card to get a bingo.

There's a horror story begging me to come back and explode heads NAO PLZ. (You'll get yours yet, cruel vanilla bean. Just. You. Wait.)

There's still three pieces art for two commissions and Reel_Startrek needing to be done (although my art muse seems to have called a strike and my talent is refusing to cross picket lines. Nice solidarity there, fuckers)

And what do I do? I write this.

*facepalm*

It's angsty, it's ambiguous and Jim swears too much.

Love to the hippy and janice_lester at LJ for helping me keep this thing within the bounds of acceptable melodrama.

Enjoy~!

* * *

He's angry and he's drunk, which is why it happens like this.

If he was smart, if he was responsible, if he was capable of living up to the picture perfect persona that Starfleet created for him when he saved the world, he would handle it better. But he's not that man, staring calmly towards the future, doctored and polished so his scars don't show under the harsh lights (the lie of smooth skin over his cheeks and the impossibly white smile still make him shudder whenever he sees the finished billboard). It's hard enough sometimes to just sit in a dive bar and fade into the shadows of a half rotted booth, revisiting his favourite avenues of self destruction with a bottle full of fizzy poison and unpleasant company. He can't exist only in two dimensions as a symbol for something greater than he'll ever be, or as a wet dream plastered on some teenager's bedroom wall.

He's Jim Kirk, and he fucks up.

Unfortunately, when he fucks up there are consequences. People die. Colonies die. They die waiting for him to save them.

And if it's logged as an act of war instead of the natural consequence of Jim Kirk misinterpreting the signs and fucking up on a never-before-realized, grandiose scale, then they can cite him for courage in the line of duty instead of court-martialing him for murder when he takes revenge. The billboard will just get shinier with the new medal on his chest and another blemish will be erased as if it never existed.

Starfleet is turning him into a reverse Dorian Grey. His reflection gets brighter and more unreal even as his soul cracks and distorts with every new mistake.

Spock is supposed to be the one who holds him in check. In another universe, they balance each other. In this one they're constantly tripping over themselves in a mad bid to see who can inflict the most damage.

He knows it's not fair even as he thinks it, but fair is pretty fucking inadequate compared to this rage. It's so pure, so clean – not attached to anything that hits deeper than _I didn't deserve that._ It's almost enough to subsume the pathetic part of him that's whining – _not from you._

Betrayal is proving more difficult to mask. He's rubbed the skin on his cheek and temple raw trying to dilute it, but the violation is resistant to mere physical force. Better then, that he drowns it.

So he downs the last of his drink, scraping the foam away from his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. (Faded blue cotton - because getting shitfaced in uniform would be _unseemly_. Not to mention against regs. And pretty fucking conspicuous.) The liquor sinks into his belly and mixes with what's been nestling there since the _Incident_ and fuck if he can sit still after that. (It's good to have a title. When he's less raw he can rechristen it, though he shies away from naming it, even hypothetically. For now, the_ Incident _is enough. Much like _Remembrance Day_ has become just another set of ceremonies he must observe and not the story of how his entire life was fucked from the day he was born, and how _Tarsus IV_ is an academic problem, a cruel simulation to torture cadets with at the Academy and not the source of his half-remembered nightmares - the _Incident _is why he's drunk out of his skull on Rankan XII, working himself into a fine fury, and not the stinging betrayal from the one of the few beings he'd stopped expecting to hurt him.)

He moves with the anger towards its ultimate source, and yeah, he knew the minute Spock walked through those stupid saloon doors without needing to hear the pneumatics hiss through their calibrated swing cycle.

He always fucking knows.

He sees him silhouetted in the low light, another poster perfect lie, standing at parade rest with his arms clasped loosely behind his back, searching through the shadows and the crowd packed densely around the low bar for a wayward starship Captain. He's so neat and tidy in his uniform - can't, by nature, be anything less, really. It's part of what makes him an excellent First Officer (and kind of shitty at undercover work, sometimes).

Jim loses himself in the crush of aliens, Klingons, Tellarites, Andorians, shit, even a couple of Betazoids thrown in for good measure. He's the only Human, as far as he knows, so he keeps his head low before they can connect the sudden appearance of a Vulcan in Starfleet regalia and the blue-eyed blond that's been glaring into his drink all night with the billboard they've been using for a dartboard. (The only use for the fucking thing he's approved of yet. If they do end up recognizing him, he'll offer to sign it before they toss him out.)

Rankan XII is an outpost world without any real political affiliations and, as such, it tends to draw outcasts from all species, most of whom seem to congregate here in this whitewashed approximation of a Terran Wild West watering hole. Jim feels oddly at home among them, poster boy for the Federation be damned. All he needs now is a ridiculous white hat and a duelling pistol to turn this into a showdown.

Or maybe he can be the villain for a change. 'Cause this heroism shit? Ain't exactly working out like the holodramas promised.

They'd play up his scars on a wanted poster.

He dismisses the whimsy with an angry shrug. It was a stupid analogy anyway.

But...

There's a promise in the dark emotions too. Like maybe he can take it and eat it and own it, and maybe it doesn't have to be endless nights stretched staring into the mirror, trying to reconcile his reflection to his image.

He makes it to the bar and signals for another drink, concludes his grateful smile needs some work when the Andorian barmaid scurries away from him instead of smiling back.

He lifts the bottle in abstract salute and watches Spock through narrowed eyes as he takes a long swallow. It burns like acid going down, which suits him just fine.

He pushes through the crowd and sets himself up so he hovers on Spock's periphery and bleeds it all out. Hopes the swirl of dark emotion is as agitating to the Vulcan's telepathy as it is to the body that's hosting it.

It only takes a few seconds for Spock to turn and face him, probably planning some cutting remark to dismiss Kirk and humiliate him all at once. He swears Vulcans get off on efficiency and if Spock ever beats off it's to memories of the time he single-handedly piloted the _Enterprise_, calculated their warp field and successfully restored power to their compromised life support systems while all the Humans around him were going mad from the noxious fumes that had infiltrated the vents.

So, yeah, cutting Jim's legs out from under him in front of a bar full of unfriendlies isn't quite the same thrill, but it'd probably be a good lead-in during his morning shower, or something.

Good thing he's invincible tonight.

He smiles tightly and lets the alcohol work its magic, sidling up nice and close, infecting Spock's precious bubble of personal space with his messy Human anger and the twisting mass of guilt that lurks beneath. Spock's flinch sharpens all of it- the rage, guilt and betrayal - and it feels a little like triumph when he bows his head under the weight.

"Well," Jim says, relishing the way the word drips off his tongue. He tries some more. "You were right, Mr. Spock. As always."

"Captain, I-"

"Don't be so humble, _Commander__. _You. Were. Right." He throws his arms out wide in proclamation, sending a nearby bottle crashing to the floor and expanding his Audience of One to include the entire bar. "I'm fucking wrecked."

"Jim. Please, we should depart." Spock reaches for him, his expression inscrutable as always, but Jim knows – can't help but know now because he can still fucking feel the ghosts of fingers imprinted on his skin - that the move is fuelled by pity smothered by an arrogant presumption of duty.

He glares and dodges the hand. "But why, Commander? Are you afraid to witness the truth of your theory? Don't want to see me destroy myself on my memories?" He takes another swallow for emphasis, exaggerates his enjoyment with a throaty moan. Honestly, this shit is _vile._ But it's potent, and that's the point.

Spock returns his stare with an eyebrow lifted in mild reproach. "I do not believe this is the time or the place to discuss this, Captain. Think of your reputation, and your crew, should this behaviour continue."

Jim's lips twist in a bitter approximation of his typical smirk. "Ah, yes. My reputation. My gloriously _sanitized_ record of service." He throws the bottle against the wall, enjoying the shatter of glass and the outraged gasps as the contents spray the crowd of emotional vampires. "You know what, Mr. Spock? Fuck my reputation, fuck Starfleet's PR nightmare and fuck you."

And he swings. He's more surprised than anything when his fist actually connects. Spock's fast, Spock's strong, Spock had to have known his intentions before even he did. But his fist sinks into skin and collides with bone, sending a solid shock of impact up his arm and into his shoulder.

The crowd pulls in, egging him on, feeding the anger. He glares at the faces blurring around him, hears the multilingual catcalls through a buffer of alcoholic distance.

Spock is unnaturally still. He's the only thing in clear focus, one slim hand pressed against his cheek, not really hiding the bruise blooming green beneath his eye. Dark eyes glitter in the uncertain light, but it's not anger Jim reads there.

"Why don't you hit me back, you asshole?" He takes a step, nails digging into the meat of his palm.

"Jim. I cannot."

Spock lowers his hand and holds his arms loosely at his sides, waiting for Jim to move again.

It's that fucking pity again, that's what it is, and it's a swift kick to a can of nitroglycerine. He swings again blindly and Spock absorbs the blow, staggering back two steps until he's against the wall. Spock ignores the helpful suggestions on how to rip the puny Human in half offered in both Klingon and Tellarite and simply catches himself, making no move to defend, or strike back.

"Fuck you and your duty!" Jim screams, "Fight me!" His voice is hoarse and too raw for his perfect rage. It's cracked and weak and he's practically sobbing when he rushes forward to drive his fists into Spock, heavy impacts thudding audibly even over the din of the crowd. It's got to hurt, Jim isn't exactly weak and he's going for kidneys and nerve clusters, desperate to provoke something, damn it. It's too much to be alone in this rage.

Spock doesn't so much as twitch in retaliation. He absorbs the blows and the jeers from their audience with equanimity, his only reaction to be read in the sadness that quickens in his eyes every time Jim's breath hitches.

This isn't the way it's supposed to happen.

He wants to pummel that calm, stoic face until it's wrecked and bleeding. He wants to rip away at Spock's serenity and reveal the raw fury that had bent him back against a console, fighting to suck in enough air to defeat the crushing grip on his windpipe. His First Officer just stands there, paying penance by offering himself as a sacrifice to Jim's demons and waits with his sad, human eyes, ready for Jim to lash out, again and again, until he's worn himself down with his violence.

But he can't. He can't hate Spock, even now. It's not fair that he can be right and still be so fucking wrong. That his purifying rage can be a bigger lie than the anything the Starfleet propaganda machine will ever produce. He punches the wall next to Spock's head instead, letting his frustration and disgust bleed through his cracked knuckles to the splintering wood.

The hiss of disappointment as the crowd disperses behind him barely registers. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and rests his forehead against the raw skin of his hand. He's pressed against Spock, trapping him between the wall and Jim, aware down to the agitation of the air molecules when Spock turns his head to face him, the heat of his breath puffing softly against Jim's neck.

There's room for shame now that the anger is fading, and it's almost more than he can bear to open his eyes under its weight. But he does. And he turns. And maybe it's not really pity Spock's offering him, but the naked concern is still too much. The hand laid on his cheek is hot with regret and heavier than lead.

"I hate you." he lies bitterly, tilting his face into the curve of Spock's palm.

Spock flinches like he's just now feeling the blow that caused the blood to trickle from his nose, though his hand stays steady. His breath is shaky when he nods solemnly. "I know. I'm sorry."

"If," he chokes on the word and tries again. "If you ever try to fuck around with my brain again, I will transfer you."

It's an empty threat and they both know it. The awareness sparks like tiny meteors burning up in the atmosphere of their connection, but Spock still sucks in a breath like he's been punched in the solar plexus. "I understand."

Jim sags and Spock catches him, steadies him. Of course.

"I'm so tired, Spock. Of all of this."

"Yes," Spock acknowledges, quietly.

"Let's go home."

He swings Jim's arm over his shoulder gently and pulls him tight against his side.

Jim hides his face in Spock's neck, taking comfort in the clean warmth while he can still blame the liquor for the need.

And they leave together, picking a slow progress to the swinging doors like characters in a holovid closing out a scene - but they're smudged and bruised, and the flecks of blood on Jim's knuckles and the wrinkles in Spock's uniform are real.

And that matters, tonight more than ever.


End file.
